


The Measure of Dreams

by alexaprilgarden



Series: Dreams and Cares [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Episode S03e02, First Kiss, M/M, POV Sherlock, Pining, Sherlock shows John how to dance, and I couldn't resist quoting song lyrics AGAIN, so bittersweet, waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-28 10:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12604820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: “Dancing.”John is standing in the kitchen of 221b in front of the table. He sounds impatient, delivering the keyword upon which Sherlock is supposed to remember his part, to remember what he has offered. John sounds expectant. A tad edgy.Sherlock, bowing over his microscope, doesn’t even bother lifting his head to look at John.The neon lamp casts a hard, bright light on the mess at the table, an ongoing experiment and the usual clutter of chemicals, petri dishes and glass slates. Some organic matter Sherlock secretly can’t bring himself to care about anymore now that John is here.He had recognized John the moment John had opened the black front door downstairs. From the corners of his eyes Sherlock can see the clues hinting at John’s nervousness, the pursing of his lips, his restless hand, the tension in his shoulders.He does remember, of course.





	The Measure of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ennisnovember](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennisnovember/gifts).



> I wrote this ficlet to thank my amazing, lovely beta @ennisnovember, based on her prompt "Sherlock teaching John how to dance, in Baker Street, behind closed curtains. About how those rumours started."  
> I loved writing this. I might add that it turned out to be a lot angstier than I'd intended (you have now been officially warned). I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless, Ennis.
> 
> This work was beta'ed by the brilliant @SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John. Thanks so, so much!

“Dancing.” 

John is standing in the kitchen of 221b in front of the table. He sounds impatient, delivering the keyword upon which Sherlock is supposed to remember his part, to remember what he has offered. John sounds expectant. A tad edgy. 

Sherlock, bowing over his microscope, doesn’t even bother lifting his head to look at John. 

The neon lamp casts a hard, bright light on the mess at the table, an ongoing experiment and the usual clutter of chemicals, petri dishes and glass slates. Some organic matter Sherlock secretly can’t bring himself to care about anymore now that John is here. 

He had recognized John the moment John had opened the black front door downstairs. From the corners of his eyes Sherlock can see the clues hinting at John’s nervousness, the pursing of his lips, his restless hand, the tension in his shoulders. 

He does remember, of course. 

They haven’t seen each other for a couple of days, not since John’s Stag Night, an event full of unexpected and undefined closeness between them. Does he recall those stares that lasted just that bit too long correctly? Those veiled teases and touches? Sherlock doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he wants to know. 

The Stag Night has left Sherlock in a state of emotional disarray. He has spent two days catalogueing and revisiting that night — which has been difficult, given that he had been inebriated most of the evening and his memory proved to be unreliable. Given that this kind of sentiment is uncharted waters for him, his heart, as always, is proving to be unreliable as well in its recollections of that night. 

Sherlock has a feeling that things are somewhat fragile between them. But maybe it is only him. 

“What?” 

“Are you listening to me? Dancing, Sherlock. You promised, remember? You said, well, you’d… teach me how to dance. For the wedding. We agreed you’d show me today.” 

To Sherlock, John sounds as if he just wants to get this over with, as if he isn’t comfortable with this whole idea. As if it had only been the prospect of embarrassing himself (and his bride) on his wedding dance that finally has made him come here, to ask Sherlock to teach him how to dance. 

He was hoping John had forgotten about his offer. 

A hint of aftershave and shower gel wafts through the room when John takes off his coat and puts it over the back of the kitchen chair. Sherlock has always liked that aftershave. 

John is wearing his best jumper, the blue cashmere one Sherlock bought for him to atone for the acid incident with his Christmas jumper. 

“Did I.” Sherlock tries hard to sound bored. 

“Yeah, Sherlock, you did.” 

Sherlock’s large hands pause mid-movement and a soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes his chest. 

“Busy.” 

“Sherlock.” 

He knows John won’t just leave. John can be stubborn, so much more stubborn than him. 

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock waits and stares into the microscope for another minute and finally, rolling his eyes and shooting John an exasperated look, he puts down the slate, gets up and abandons his experiment. 

— 

“Which dance?” Sherlock seeks refuge in checking something on his phone. 

“I’ve told you before! Waltz. That’s what you traditionally do for a wedding dance, don’t you?” 

“Yes, _excellent_ choice. The Oxford English Dictionary hasn’t called it _riotous and indecent_ since 1825.” 

“Sherlock, can we just…?” 

Sherlock puts down the phone next to his laptop in silent defeat. 

“Of course. Yes.” 

— 

Sherlock has pushed the chairs and the table to the sides of the living room and is standing in the now empty space in the middle. He points to his right side. 

“Stand here, John.” 

“Shouldn’t you be… dancing _with_ me?” 

“I said stand here. Next to me. I will show you the basic steps. It is easier for the mature beginner to imitate the teacher’s movements without having to mirror them while dancing in pairs.” 

“Sherlock!” 

“Do you want to me help you?” 

“Yes!” 

“Then stand here, John!” 

— 

Sherlock braces himself. It feels to him as if John is doing the same. 

“Ready, John?” 

“Ready.” 

John is standing next to Sherlock, his smaller feet next to his own. John will fall into step with him, as he always does. He will be slow, at first. He will fight and do his best to keep up with Sherlock. He will surprise Sherlock and persuade him, once more, that he is the most fascinating thing on this planet. 

“Step forward with your left foot, right foot sideways to the right, left foot next to your right one, step back with your right foot, right foot back to your left.” 

“Okay, okay. Show me again. And slower, please.” 

— 

“The Waltz has a very significant rhythm. Three quarter time. Easy to hear.” Sherlock hits a key on his laptop on the table and a slow piano tune sets in, accompanied by strings. 

Before he can go on explaining, John interrupts him. 

“That’s beautiful.” 

“What’s beautiful?” 

“The music.” 

“Oh. Found it on youtube.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say that he has prepared this playlist days in advance, just to be on the safe side, just in case. Four hours of whatever waltzing pieces he could find. He has stuck to classical music (avoiding Strauss, though, and the more saccharine pieces of Mozart) and only added a few modern songs in the end. 

“But I still like yours better,” John adds after a moment. 

“Mine?” 

“Your music. I like your music better. When you play the violin.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock feels a blush heating his cheeks and keeps his eyes fixed on the laptop screen. “Thank you.” 

“But you can’t play and dance at the same time. Not even you.” 

— 

“One — two — three, one — two — three — no, right foot, John — two — three, one — two — three… yeah, now just go on.” 

“’Kay.” 

They move in unison a couple of times, side by side, until John gets it wrong, tries to jump back into the rhythm and finally gives up, looking a bit sheepish. 

“John. Have you _ever_ danced before?” 

“Like this? Not since I was thirteen.” 

They try again. The low tap-tap-tap of their combined footsteps mingles with the piano tune in the otherwise calm flat, a slow, but ragged rhythm that turns into a soft, steady beat as John’s attempts at the basic steps become more fluent after a few rounds. 

“It’s not that difficult.” John is a little out of breath. 

“Shut up and dance.” 

John is looking at him, but Sherlock pretends to focus on the steps. He pretends he doesn’t notice how it is getting entirely too warm in the living room. 

— 

“Well. I think — we might try it together now.” 

“Right.” 

John clears his throat and freezes in the spot where he stopped. Sherlock turns to stand in front of him. 

John is small. Ridiculously small. Sherlock recalls the secret delight of sneaking into John’s personal space countless times, just to experience his fascinating smallness and the thrill of their stolen proximity. 

“Stand straight, John.” _John always stands straight,_ Sherlock thinks. That and the underlying strength of his body are why people never tend to notice his actual size. “Put your right arm on my waist. Hold up your left hand.” 

Sherlock places his left hand on John’s shoulder and closes his other one around John’s outstretched left. He almost frowns at the sudden intimacy this touch brings. His usual rude, dismissive tone doesn’t feel appropriate now that John is standing so close, now that they are touching like this. He needs to speak a little softer. So soft that his voice is suddenly gone, and he has to clear his throat. 

“Don’t look at your feet.” 

“Yeah, right.” 

John’s posture speaks insecurity, speaks nervousness. It comes with sweaty palms, accelerated breathing and the avoidance of eye contact. When the music sets in, John moves so stiffly Sherlock wonders for a moment if his leg is troubling him. 

— 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it, Sherlock?” 

“Except that you got the rhythm wrong, started with the wrong foot three times and clutched my hand as if you were holding on for dear life. But, no—” at that, he sighs, “it wasn’t so bad.” 

John smiles for first time this evening. Something inside Sherlock melts, and he realizes he desperately needs to keep his composure. 

“Try again then?” John tilts his head. 

“Try again.” 

— 

The song stops, and they break their close position during the short break. John takes a step backwards, out of Sherlock’s personal space. He wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and turns his head sideways, obviously not knowing where to look and where to put his hands. 

“It’s getting a little dark, don’t you think?” John asks and switches on the lamps in the living room. Before he comes back to Sherlock, his eyes flicker across the windows. The street lights are already lit and the sky outside has grown dusky. A few people walk by on the pavement. Sherlock can see the reflection of John’s face in the window glass. After a split second of hesitation, John draws the curtains. 

Sherlock is the first to stretch his hand out again. It still feels like stolen touches. 

— 

“Try to move more fluently. This is dancing, not marching.” 

“I’m only just learning how to dance, Sherlock!” 

“Try nonetheless.” 

“I am trying, you arrogant twit.” There is laughter in John’s voice. It is contagious. 

— 

“Now that your basic step has stopped being an abomination of the dance, we can proceed. Dancing on the same square all the time is horribly boring, John. We’ll add a little spin. Start with the basic step again.” 

“Okay.” 

“And now you lead.” 

“Lead?” 

“Yes, lead. One partner usually leads, the other one follows. Traditionally the male partner leads.” He coughs. “Your part. With Mary.” 

John takes a step back and clenches and unclenches his hands to relax his muscles after holding his arms in the unfamiliar dancing posture. He returns to Sherlock and takes his waiting hand. 

“People say that dancing is like communication.” 

“John, people say all sorts of esoteric rubbish. It is about observing, anticipating and reacting. When you want me to move in a certain direction, increase the pressure with your hand, like this. Don’t squeeze, don’t overdo it. Just a hint. I will understand the hint and react. I’ll follow your lead.” 

— 

“Don’t look at your feet, John. I’ve told you before.” 

“Well, it’s bloody difficult coordinating everything so quickly.” 

“Don’t look at your feet.” 

“Where do you want me to look?” 

“Look over my shoulder at the room.” 

“I can only look _at_ your shoulder, you tall git.” 

— 

A few increasingly successful dances with a slight spin to the right and John leading, Sherlock stops and lets go of John, who obviously needs a short break. They both do, in fact. Learning how to dance is challenging. So is teaching, even if Sherlock rather needs a break from the proximity to John and from focusing on him in such a physical way. He’s already starting to feel light-headed. 

Sherlock turns in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Need something to drink, too?” 

“Yeah. Just water. I’m thirsty.” 

John takes off the dark blue jumper while Sherlock quickly washes up two glasses that have been standing in the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and undoes the top buttons of his shirt when John isn’t looking. 

“Thanks,” John says when Sherlock hands him the glass. He takes two large sips. 

Sherlock also stops to drink, and the cool water running down his throat feels wonderful. When he looks back over, John is smiling at him. John cocks his head, channeling the unspoken question of _Shall we?_

Sherlock smiles, finishes his drink and sets the empty glass down next to the laptop. He starts the music and goes back to John. 

— 

It feels good. 

It feels surprisingly good. 

John carefully, tentatively leads. 

Sherlock lets himself be lead. He allows his hand resting on John’s shoulder to ease up a bit. He stands upright with a little less force. The music is actually quite nice. 

They’re dancing. 

— 

Sherlock chuckles at a joke John has cracked. The song ends and John is smiling at him. And he is still holding his hand. 

Sherlock has set the pauses at one or two seconds only. The fact that John is getting comfortable enough not to take his hands off Sherlock during the short span of time between two songs is more than enough to send wave of warmth through Sherlock’s chest.  
  
But maybe John just doesn’t realize it. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything. 

— 

Each time they resume their dancing it feels a little easier. They don’t hear the music anymore. There is no part in the background of Sherlock’s brain that is still trying to deduce who wrote the song currently playing. He dedicates his whole self to John, to John’s motions. He corrects little mistakes wordlessly and forces himself to let John lead. 

Sherlock has to admit that John isn’t bad at dancing. He isn’t a natural talent either, but given that he is a beginner, he is doing rather well. He might lack the elegance that comes with a tall build and years of experience, but his movements are fluid and full of strength. As much as Sherlock usually strives for perfection and elegance, and as much as he is used to leading his own partner, he cannot think of anything better than John’s gentle, steady lead. 

He focuses on what he feels — John’s smaller, strong hand holding his own, warm, but not sweating anymore, and the slight presses John tries to give him to signal moves and directions, just like Sherlock showed him how to do. Sherlock feels John’s shoulder blades under his right hand, which still hold a good deal of tension and betray John’s superficial calmness, and which give away every move he wants to make before he has even consciously decided on it. 

Sherlock stops counting the songs they dance to and loses track of time. 

— 

They dance for a long time, only interrupted by occasional corrections. Sherlock even shows John a simple turn. Slowly, they get used to dancing with each other, and their dance has turned into a gentle whirl of fluid, relaxed movements and smiles. 

John disrupts his posture by looking down again, stealing glances at his feet. John is tensing again, very slightly. Sherlock finds he can’t quite pinpoint when it started. This is different now. This isn’t the tension John had shown in the beginning. And it certainly isn’t the dancing. The Waltz is a simple enough dance, even John can learn the basics within a few hours. 

“You’re doing it again, John.” 

“What?” 

“You’re looking at your feet.” 

“Looking at the room doesn’t work. Everything’s bloody spinning.” 

“Then look at me.” 

John hesitates and Sherlock already regrets suggesting it. He is giving away too much of himself. 

But John does lift his head to look at him. 

Things shift. 

Sherlock didn’t intend to say that. He would take it back if he could. 

— 

Sherlock looks at John, and John looks back at him. It is like an electrical connection, a circuit that runs through the whole of their bodies, through their touching hands, through John’s shoulder and the place where John gently holds Sherlock’s waist. Through their charged gaze. 

He is dancing with John, touching John. John is leading him and communicating with him physically. A little clumsily, yes. People say esoteric rubbish, but sometimes they are just right. 

John’s eyes are the only mystery worth investigating, the only riddle worth solving. John’s eyes are beautiful. 

The air is humming with the intensity of things unsaid, unacknowledged, unacted upon. With chances they have missed. 

And still it is all there, long gone and wasted and pressing with urgency all the same. 

— 

The next song starts with guitars and what must be flutes. 

“The Pogues? Sherlock? _A Rainy Night in Soho_?” 

“Added a few modern songs in the end. To prepare you for the an unexpected change in the musical style. This dance works just as well with pop songs, as long as the tempo is right.” 

Sherlock struggles to make his voice sound as casual as possible. 

They don’t stop, don’t break their posture. They don’t stop touching. 

John is shaking his head and smiling to himself. This must be a song from his youth. Undoubtedly he is reliving some pleasant memories of days gone by as he connects with this song. 

Sherlock is relieved when John doesn’t look at him during that treacherous line ‘And you're the measure of my dreams’. Sherlock knows that his face must be betraying him right now, giving away all the emotions he fights to keep a secret. 

— 

At the next song’s first slow, melancholy piano notes, Sherlock involuntarily gives a slight press to John’s hand. He inhales as he recognizes the song. 

“Perfect day”, Lou Reed. Sherlock never thought they would dance this long. 

He recalls what he was thinking when he added this song to the playlist. How it reminded him of all the days he has spent with John, chasing through London on cases. In the flat, when it still used to be _their_ flat, stealing food from John’s plate while insulting the telly. Indeed, perfect days. 

Somehow they make it through the first verses, but John isn’t concentrating anymore. He almost steps on Sherlock’s feet and keeps looking down. 

“Focus, John! Step back with your right foot and then take it back to your left,” he commands, low enough not to be louder than the music. 

John draws a sharp breath and briefly closes his eyes in an effort to concentrate on the dancing. A few moments later, he loses the rhythm again. His voice croaks when he starts speaking. 

“I — I can’t focus like this, Sherlock.” 

John stops. 

And so does Sherlock. 

They stand close together, hands still in position before slowly sinking down until they hang losely at their side. Their fingers still touch. John’s right hand still rests on Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock feels like a fool when he withdraws his own hand from John’s shoulder. 

The moments tick by as Lou Reed sings from the laptop speakers. 

__Just a perfect day  
You made me forget myself  
I thought I was  
Someone else, someone good 

In slow motion John steps a little closer and rises to his toes. He puts his hand, just his thumb really, on Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock is shocked to see John’s eyes glittering intensely, brimming over with hope and regret and something unfathomable, something that Sherlock recognizes immediately and can’t call anything but _You_. 

__Oh, it's such a perfect day  
I'm glad I spent it with you  
Oh, such a perfect day  
You just keep me hanging on  
You just keep me hanging on 

With inexplicable gentleness John kisses Sherlock. It is barely more than a touch of lips, warm, so soft and lingering as if asking for permission. 

Sherlock is paralyzed by the feeling of John’s lips against his own, by the smell of John’s skin, by being so close to him. 

After a heartbeat, he closes his eyes and leans in. 

— 

Suddenly there are footsteps on the stairs, and Greg’s voice echoes down the hallway. 

They slowly withdraw from each other, just a few inches. It feels as if they are only really looking at each other for the first time. John is still holding Sherlock’s hand. Before letting go of it, he gives it a small, gentle squeeze, a reassurance. A sign that he isn’t embarrassed, that he doesn’t regret this. That this is theirs. 

Just before Greg enters the room, John finally takes a step back, but he can’t bring himself to look at something else but Sherlock. 

“Oi. What are you two doing here? Not disturbing you, am I?” 

John clears his throat. 

John, who has kissed him not even a minute ago. 

“Sherlock showed me how to dance. The waltz. For my wedding dance, you know.” 

“Right… behind closed curtains, eh? Afraid someone might spot you and get all the rumours started again?” Greg laughs and then he starts to tell them about a new case. 

John’s eyes never leave Sherlock. 

Sherlock registers the details about the case with the peripheral region of his brain. At some point, when it seems to be reasonable, he plucks his coat from the hook in the hallway while John gets his own from the kitchen chair. Before they rush downstairs, John switches off the light in the living room. 

Acting as if on auto-pilot they follow Greg to the crime scene, look at the clues and ask the usual questions. They solve the case before long. It really doesn’t matter what the case is even about. 

All that matters and all that Sherlock thinks about is that John has kissed him. And ever since John has kissed him, his world has been tumbling down in a silent, happy apocalypse. The heavy, strong walls of his mind palace have collapsed, tumbled down into nothing but rubble and dust. And they were re-erected to house this new knowledge, the thousandfold of sensory input, infinitely complex like a fractal and yet of the simplest beauty. 

The sensation of John’s lips. The smell of John’s skin. The warmth of John’s hands. 

The way John looked at him. 

Sherlock is — and he chokes at the realization of it — once again overwhelmed by John Watson, and drowning in joy and sadness in equal measure. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here are the two songs John and Sherlock dance to in the end:  
> [A Rainy Night in Soho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55Yp8vecWXM) by The Pogues  
> [Perfect Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYEC4TZsy-Y) by Lou Reed
> 
> A big thank you to @isitandwonder for helping me out with 3/4 time-pop songs!


End file.
